


Chaperon Rouge

by Pigeon



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Community: spn_j2_xmas, Fairy Tales, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform, M/M, Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen has a red Hood. Jeff is a Wolf. In Space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaperon Rouge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bertee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/gifts).



> A gift for the most incredible Bertee using her prompt of a Jeff/Jensen Red Riding Hood AU, and then mashed it with her like of sci-fi AUs and pirates. I sadly did not manage to get to her like of porn. I possibly owe her an epilogue for that.

_The Wolf, I say for Wolves be sure there are  
Of every sort and every character.  
Some of them mild and gentle-humoured be;  
Of noise and gall and rancour wholly free,  
...yet, ah! Who cannot see  
That they most dangerous of all Wolves must be?_  
\- Little Red Riding Hood, Charles Perrault

 

 _Fear and flee the Wolf; for, worst of all, the Wolf may be more than he seems._  
\- The Company of Wolves, Angela Carter

 

The red Hood dips and bobs and weaves itself past the heavy grey cargo Perraults and the sleek military Hunters with their weapon turrets and bulbous radar eyes. The port is thick with vessels, each jockeying for a convenient dock ( _those closest to the pleasure arm of the space station are the most popular_ ), and Jensen finds himself swearing more than once as some larger, faster ship cuts across his path.

Hoods are not known for either their strength or their might. They are little one-man crafts, made for short inter-system hops, cheap to run and cheap to maintain. Anyone with a hammer and wrench set can sew them up and keep them flying.

And Jensen's had to take his Hood down to the bones and put it back together on more than one occasion.

The engine is a stripped back brute, iron slick with dark grease and spluttering through each rotation. The hull is thin and peeling red paint, rivets in thick unimaginative lines over the bow and stern. The controls lifted from a fifty year old cruiser, pared down to fit and awkward and heavy to manoeuvre.

The basket though is where a Hood is a thing of beauty.

Woven strands of aluminium and copper, a cross-hatch of colours, deep bellied and strapped tight beneath the underpan of the ship. Cargo space to haul enough to feed a village of fifty half a year.

Jensen grabs the handset for the radio, kicking the transistor that lies under the dash when it lets out a thin whine. After a moment it crackles to life, static fizzing sharp before dying away; "Vessel Chaperon Rouge, Hood class, requesting permission to depart."

" _Destination, Chaperon Rouge?_ "

"Forest System."

" _Reason?_ "

Jensen pauses, fingers flexing on the flight controls; "Delivery of goods." He hold his breath, waits to hear if the voice will demand for him to produce his permission and authorisation notes, all those little electronic ones and zeros that let him ( _grudgingly_ ) move at will. Or if a dark Hunter, bristling with laser rifles and sonic axes will pull alongside, escort him to the Security Arm and proceed to thoroughly convince him that leaving the safe regulated space of the Township is a very bad idea.

" _Permission to depart granted_." Low whisper of white noise, murmur of other voices, radio static and a thousand conversations. " _Warning has been given of Wolf activity in the Forest System._ "

"Understood. Chaperon Rouge out." And he's easing forward, keeping his speed steady, as the space station falls away behind him.

As he passes the buoys that mark the limit of the space station's radar and vigilance spears Jensen lets the Hood build up a head and swoop faster into the void.

He cannot feel the rush of speed, there is no air to buffet him, no gravitational forces to pull at skin and muscle, pressing him into his seat. Instead there is just the vague throb of the engines at his back, the vibration trembling up through his seat and shimmying to his bones. A Hood doesn't have the smooth ride of the fancier crafts, the large gun-bristled Hunters or sleek Wolves with their sinuous lines, stealth-black and wet glossed danger. But they sweep and bob, burst of power from the engines, rumbling sharp before the lull as they dart forward.

It is a two day trip to the Forest System.

The recycled air only remains breathable for a maximum of twenty seven hours, there is no bunk, no space to heat food, and his seat will start to play havoc with his back in less than half that time. But he's energy bars and a canteen of dark beer, he's turned up the streamed music on the radio until space is filled with resonating strings and the sharp call of brass, and there's a space-stop with slick grease-fried foods and inch-thin mattresses for rent twenty hours flight away.

Until then there is just the pulse and whoosh of the Hood, and space, inky and cold around him.

Jensen smoothes his hands over the controls, tries to find the perfect pitch for the engines, enough power to keep the speed up, not enough for the craft to shake itself down to its rivets and seams. The stitched leather of the throttle feels soft and warm in his palm, the neat sewn threads nicely scratchy against his skin, the tremble up from the metal strut thin and alive.

He makes this trip only once or twice a year; the dangers too great for it to be done more frequently. Between the threat from the Wolves that circle in packs, picking off civilian crafts, stealing cargo, pilots going missing or returning pale with eyes wide and skittering, and the Township's _displeasure_ at the aid they shipped out to the far regions, the people who lived in the wilds where they were not subject to the strictures of the law, the risks were too high.

One day, Jensen thinks, he might move to the Forest System himself. Live in a small dwelling, tin-pot generator at its side for heat, plumbing tied to a groundwater pump. Live simply. Live quietly.

He adjusts the navigation slightly, plotting on his star-map where a cloud nebula has shifted a few degrees.

But if he lived there, on the ground with the trees thick and close and blotting out the stars, then he would not get to see sights like this – vapour pink and electric blue, trails of translucent gas caught bright and burning and frozen in a stretch of nothingness. He wouldn't be able to circle it, send his Hood around the edges, until he stirred the faintest outstretched tendrils, dust and hydrogen and helium all whipped up and changed by his course.

" _Having fun, Little Hood?_ "

His fingers still on the sonar-screen.

There are no other crafts marked, no blips or echoes suggesting any other space-vehicles.

He flips the switch for the radio, "No. You playing hide and go seek?"

There's a laugh that's low, and rumbles loud all around him from the Hood's tinny speakers. " _Not much of one for kids' games._ " The voice has an element of gravel, like moondust caught beneath your boot. " _But you seemed to be enjoying yourself, twirling around the nebula_."

The nebula must be the reason he can't see the other ship, too much radiation, too much noise to see the signal clearly. Not even a ghost on the sonar.

"Just getting from A to B."

" _Of course you are, Sweetheart._ " There's a pause, a space of static and white noise. " _You feel like telling me where Point B is?_ "

"Not especially."

" _Not very friendly of you, Little Hood. The way I figure it is that only three types of ship come all the way out here. The first would be the Hunters, and, Sweetheart, they wouldn't be caught dead in a rickety little Hood. Next are the Wolves, and admittedly they are more circumspect with their vehicles, but still, a Hood is defenceless, weaponless, and would split like a can of peaches from one laser blast. So that's ruled out. Last are the pretty little aid workers, kindly souls without the sense god gave a gnat._ " The voice stops for a moment, as if it suspects Jensen is going to interrupt, " _You want to guess which I have you pegged for?_ "

"I'm not sure I care that much."

The laughter this time is warm, like they're old friends, like the owner of the voice, the man, the _Wolf_ , knows Jensen, has seen him tired or drunk, smiled at him, broke bread with him.

" _Careful, Sweetheart, I might start to think you've got teeth_."

The nebula is still blocking any sign of the other vessel, and Jensen wonders how long they can play this game, blind man's bluff in space, and what will happen when the game comes to an end.

Wolves are not known for their mercy.

"Teeth. Claws," Jensen shrugs though the other man cannot see him. "Even been known to throw a punch a time or two."

" _Now you're just flirting with me_."

Jensen pauses, unsure how to respond. His father used to tell him tales of the Wolves that lived out on the borderlands, the ones from the first Deportation, dumped on barren rocks, no shelter, no food, no civilisation.

Then there were the descendents, the ones that were said to wear animal skins proudly the way their ancestors had been forced to, the ones that scavenged together ships and raided in packs. Looting, murdering, pillaging.

His mother's tales had been a little different. Hers had been full of old fashioned words, words like _Ravish_.

"Sorry, never go on a date sight unseen."

" _Sweetheart, playing hard to get is only going to make me like you more_."

 _There_ , just at the edge of the nebula, not clear enough to identify what sort of craft, but there's a definite blip, a ghost of where the Wolf is.

No sign of any other ships huddling there though; maybe the rest of the pack is still hidden in the neon spiral of the nebula?

He could make a run for it. Try to zip off any direction the Wolf _isn't_. He might not be fast but he can weave and dart, slide to the side and try to lose himself in the long twisting tendrils of the nebula, find a moon to hide his wake. If nothing else surprise could just give him an edge.

Fighting is not an option.

And surrender is laughable.

Surrender is ( _...probably, might be, could be..._ ) suicide.

Jensen takes a slow breath, flexes his hand on the throttle, counts to ten.

There's a screech of white noise, static sharp as tacks and drilling into his ears, and a new voice barks over the radio, " _Hood class vessel identify yourself._ "

Jensen fumbles for the radio, he hadn't noticed the form of the Hunter on the sonar, the craft sliding silent and hulking behind him. "Chaperon Rouge. Master Jensen Ackles," he bites back to desire to add _Sir_.

There's a pause, an emptiness all the greater for the lack of the Wolf's low voice cutting in.

" _State business and destination._ "

"Delivery of goods..."

" _Elaborate_ ," the voice, polished steel and flat insistence, interrupts.

"Er... Aid. Medical supplies and food for the Forest System."

He wonders if the Wolf is still lurking, just out of sight, listening to this conversation, laughing at him.

He wonders if he is slinking away, making his escape.

He wonders why he doesn't report him, have the Hunter track the Wolf down, obliterate him from the sky.

" _Assistance to the Forest System is discouraged_." Another pause, and then the voice, still sharp and brittle, bends itself just a little, " _Wolves prowl here, Master Ackles, you would be wise not to place yourself in their path._ "

"Understood, Sir."

" _Pilot to the Space-stop in grid vector G. Do not deviate from your course, Chaperon Rouge. Fly quickly and carefully._ "

"Yes, Sir."

" _You may depart._ "

He doesn't reply, just eases the throttle forward, eyes fixed on the sonar, scanning the screen for any sign of other crafts, anything to let him know if he is being followed.

For the last two hours before he reaches the space-stop he finds himself getting edgier, fingers tapping staccato against the controls, shifting in his seat, humming tunelessly. Part of it is the fine driving edge of exhaustion; he's been flying for hours, held in place and worn thin from focus and the black of space. The chair is too hard and unforgiving again his back, making him remember aches and bruises that should have long since healed. And the thought of food, hot and fatty, fried bacon slice with black beans and eggs fluffed up and loaded with cheese, makes his stomach grumble long and loud.

The other part is the whisper he sometimes thinks he catches through the radio, hidden behind layers of static, the low growl of the Wolf.

Once he's docked, locked the Hood up tight, immobilised and secure, he stretches out the muscles in his back and neck, hearing his spine pop loud. He wipes the grit and bleariness from his face and decides on food, then sleep, then a shower.

The space-stop smells of grease and sweat. Slick warm scents of diesel and tar and frying food and over-ripe bodies. Posters are plastered to the metal walls; adverts for the latest turbo-engine or the dancing girls and boys of the Polis System.

The cafeteria isn't very crowded, a few heavy set men in stained overalls crowded around a low table, passing playing cards between them, two women nursing large mugs of coffee, hands thin-boned but strong. Jensen queues up and takes his plate, sausage links burnt black and brittle, pale, anaemic eggs, watery and tasteless on his tongue, heavy biscuits, and gravy slopping dangerous and thin.

After the long hours with dry muesli energy bars, each mouthful makes him smile.

He mops up the last of the gravy and licks his fingers clean, shoving the plate into the auto-washer as he tries to swallow back a jaw-cracking yawn. The men are still playing cards, the women still sipping at their now lukewarm coffee, sharing quiet familiar looks.

He doesn't see anyone else as he walks through the long corridors to the dormitories. His feet ring out steady tinny steps on the metal walkway, and his shadow flits before and behind him as he passes each hanging light. Once or twice he glances back, half convinced there is someone lurking just out of sight, carefully matching his pace.

The dormitory itself is just the same as he remembers it; row after row of triple bunks, blue woollen blankets, yellow stained pillows, thin mattresses. It is a room without privacy, a great barracks with no screens or curtains, nothing but beds, fifty across and over a hundred deep. Jensen strips out of his overalls, and tucks his boots neat on the floor, scrubs a hand through his hair and yawns widely before clambering up onto the middle bunk and tucking himself in beneath the blankets.

There's no one above or below him, no one in the beds to the side either, and the rhythmic sound of snores sounds distant, far across on the other side of the dorm.

Sleep drifts around him slowly, settling into his bones, making his thoughts thick and treacly, a lazy whirl of blurred mis-remembrances.

The scent of fabric powder from the blanket is childhood camping in the middle of the front room. Tent of chair backs and bedsheet.

The cold of the sheets again his feet is the winters spent working for his grandmother on the seventh moon, clearing snow and stewing ice-berry fruits.

The soft communal sounds of snuffling, wheezing breaths is flight school and bunks filled with kids half scared, half elated. Fingers twitching to be back at the controls, mind replaying each dip and swoop and near-stall.

Sleep comes, the hours pass unnoticed.

He dreams.

Hands, and touch, and the rumbling growl of a voice shaking through him. The snap of jaws. Whisper of beard stubble prickling against his skin. Dark hair and dark hooded eyes.

He's hard when he wakes, blood thrumming and an ache between his legs. The blanket is twisted round him, and the pillow has fallen to the floor. Jensen shudders a little as he feels the sweat on his body begin to dry. It had seemed so real; a callused hand curling around the line of his jawbone, lips against his cheek, the rasp of stubble, a low voice murmuring to him softly.

The showers are thankfully deserted and he braces one hand against the wall as he lets his mind wander and his other hand stroke himself sharp and hard and quick.

It's rough and just this side of uncomfortable, the water not enough to stop the dry-worn skin on his fingers catching and scraping.

He pants and leans his head against the shower wall as he feels again a whisper of breath against his ear, a thumb smoothing over his bottom lip.

And when it finally comes, his body tightening and then falling boneless, release white against the wall and swirling away with the water, he shuts his eyes and bites back the groan that lies heavy on his tongue.

He's still in a daze when he leaves the space-stop, going through his pre-flight checks by rote. He's refuelled, stocked up on energy bars and a fresh canteen of dark beer from the little shop that sells everything from porno mags (pictures and fold-outs of the Polis girls and boys dressed in their dancing tutus when they're dressed in anything, all blue shimmered eyeshadow and lashes lengthened with firebird feathers) to hard candy and star maps.

As he un-docks and the Hood falls away from the space-stop in a slow arc, he takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the here and now; he has a basket full of antibiotics and seedlings, birth control pills and coffee beans, and another fifteen hours of flight before he arrives.

This far out there is no music available on the radio and he finds himself humming old half remembered tunes from when he was younger, one song tripping into another, phrases blurring together. The colours of the planets he passes ranges from a shimmering violet-silver to the vivid shock of emerald-green. Some have a smattering of tiny satellites orbiting them, others are isolated, vast and solitary.

On the very edge of his sonar Jensen can see the Forest System; a collection of planets and moons hidden behind a belt of asteroids, ice fragments and rich red carbon.

He sets up the auto signal to let them know he's on his way, only a few hours out now, and settles back to watch the system slowly come into view.

Navigating the asteroid belt takes careful manoeuvring; even a small hit by one of the meteorites could puncture his hull. He wends his way slowly, easing himself between the larger rocks, steering away from the tiny flotsam and shattered diamonds.

He pilots over to the largest planet, fifth out from the sun and the most densely forested. There's a clearing high up on the continent that's vaguely shaped like a ladle, and he follows the line of rivers and lakes until he begins to recognise the terrain. A series of low hills and tors, a ragged cliff, a dried up creek. The clearing itself is a good hour's trek from the nearest cabin, a small wooden house where the local ranger lives and co-ordinates the handouts of medicine and food.

He lands in the same scuffed up scars he left in the ground six months ago when he was last here, and pops open the main hatch, breathing in the scent of pine and sorrel.

The air is crisp and cool as he makes his way through the trees, walking the path that is half overgrown with ivy and ferns. When he arrives at the house he will be treated to soup or broth, drinks of a thick, clear home-brewed liquid that burns his throat and settles heavy in his stomach, and a night in a soft bed beneath heavy quilts. Then in the morning all the local men and women will be rounded up and the Hood unloaded and the aid doled out.

He smells the hickory smoke from the cabin's chimney long before it comes into sight.

The cabin itself hasn't changed any since he was last here; moss thick on the roof, a pile of split wood by the front door, rusty generator to the side. Beneath the eaves there is a huddle of plump breasted woodpigeons.

He walks up and raps sharply on the door.

"Come in."

The latch gives easily and he steps through into the fire-warmed room. He doesn't spot the ranger at first, just the table laid for two, the easy chair before the stove, the hearth rug, and wide bed.

"Shut the door behind you and warm up."

It isn't the small steel haired woman he'd met last time, but he's met several rangers over the last few years, the community cycling through them with democratic ease. This ranger is tall, strong built and broad shouldered, dark haired and dark eyes, beard greying just a little.

"Thanks," Jensen shuts the door firmly and steps closer to the stove, fingers flexing as he tries to get some warmth flowing back into them.

"Here, let me." The ranger's voice is low and rough and he takes Jensen's hands easily, rubbing at them briskly. "Any better?"

"Yes. Thank you." Jensen can feel a foolish heat rising on his face, and he tugs his hands away quickly, taking a step back. "I don't remember meeting you last time I was here."

"Nope, and I'm certain I'd remember you." The ranger gives a laugh that is all sorts of deep, teeth flashing white and sharp. "I'm Jeff."

"Jensen."

"Nice to meet you, Jensen."

Jensen nods, distracted. Jeff is different from the three or four rangers he's met previously. They'd been quiet and sober, for all that they'd been able to drink him under the table. Jeff is a presence, large where they'd been small, bold where they'd been meek.

Jensen finds himself sneaking sideways looks at him as Jeff starts to dish out bowls of broth, the rest of the cabin seeming to fade into muted shades, indistinct next to Jeff's confidence.

"Come and sit. How was your trip out here, uneventful?"

"Yes." Jensen pauses, "Mostly."

"Oh?"

"It was nothing, just..." Jeff is looking at him, dark eyes hooded and almost sleepy. Jensen drops his own eyes down, focuses on the broth in front of him, thick with meat and vegetables. "No, really it was nothing. Boring almost." He blows on a spoonful of broth to cool it before tasting it.

"Good?"

"Yes," it's true, rich and heavy and just slightly salty. The broth warms him, settling solid and satisfying in his stomach and making him feel sleepy, body still worn and aching from the journey. "Thanks again."

"Don't mention it." Jeff smiles again, less wide this time. Less teeth. Less bite.

Outside the wind is starting to pick up, howling low and thin through the trees.

His head aches a little from too many hours awake, and his muscles feel stiff and worn, overworked like kneaded sourdough. Jeff is smiling steadily at him, all deep marked dimples and a glint in dark eyes.

There's a drink in front of him, a shot glass of clear thickened liquid, and he can't quite remember when it appeared there. It burns as he downs it, sweet like summer cherries, sharp and juicy and frozen fire on his lips.

The cabin is too warm.

And his blood feels sluggish in his veins.

"You alright there, Kid?"

"Hmm," Jeff's still looking at him, leaning forward as if he's going to touch him. "Yeah, yeah."

"Must have been a long day, you're falling asleep in your broth." Jeff's voice is low, too rough to be truly soothing, like fur licked against the grain. "Why don't you go lie down in the bed."

A hand curls around the point of his elbow, gently ushering him to his feet. The room dips and sways. Like the bob and surge of his Hood.

"No, I'm..." Jensen's voice trails off. One of his knees buckles lightly, and he frowns down at his leg. Jeff is laughing quietly in his ear, a vague familiar rumble. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are, Sweetheart."

There's a thought small and prickling at the edge of his consciousness, but he can't quite seem to grasp it.

"In you get, come on." Jeff's bending to get his boots, strong fingers picking at the knots and undoing the buckles. "Good night's sleep will put you back to rights, Sweetheart."

He's shaking his head but he's not sure that he disagrees. The bed is soft beneath him, a mess of patchwork quilts and down pillows, and he sinks into the mattress when he shuffles over to the centre of the bed.

Jeff hand comes up to cup his face, smoothing away his hair. "Hmm, big hands," Jensen slurs a little.

"All the better for touching you, I suppose, Little Hood."

He words hang there for a second, blearily dancing through Jensen's head, then, " _Wolf_."

"Pretty little aid worker."

He's a thought that he should be striking out, throwing punches and wriggling off the bed, but his limbs don't seem to want to work, weighed down with lead. "I don't..."

"Shh, Little Hood. Just go to sleep." And Jeff is drawing the blanket up over him.

"My ship?"

"Already gone," The firelight paints the Wolf in bloody tones, glinting red off teeth that look sharp, look ferocious. "Gone and consumed. It's what we do."

Jensen blinks, "You eat ships?"

The Wolf laughs, "No, would happily eat you up though."

The light is dimming, blurring at the edges.

"You can't-"

"Yes, I can, Sweetheart. I can do anything I choose. Now go to sleep."

 

~

 

It's early when Jensen wakes, pre-dawn, still dark outside, sky a blue too deep to be truly called blue.

He's still dressed, boots place neatly side by side at the bottom of the bed.

And the Wolf is sat in front of the stove, his back to him, and what looks like a yellow crocheted shawl draped across his shoulders.

Jensen feels drawn out and vague, body too heavy and hollowed out. He isn't sure what drug the Wolf had slipped him last night but he was pretty certain it didn't agree with him.

Yet he is not dead, and he's not quite sure why.

Wolves do not spare people.

Wolves steal and murder and rape.

And prey is left bloodied and dead.

"I'll throw on some eggs in a minute, it'll help settle your stomach and wake you up a bit."

Jensen frowns, "Kind of you, but I think I'd rather you gave me back my ship and cargo."

The Wolf stands, "Sorry, no dice. It's needed."

"It's needed here," Jensen argues.

"Not as much."

"You don't know that."

"Yes," Jeff is looking at him almost indulgently, as if he's just some spoilt kid who still believes in the benevolence of the Township, and wishing upon stars, "Sweetheart, I really do."

The Wolf stands, crocheted shawl slipping from his shoulders, body unfolding, strong and solid. He putters around the cabin whilst Jensen sits there, half out of the bed, grabbing an iron skillet and a basin of eggs, a heel of bread and golden pat of butter.

"I need my ship back," Jensen tries to keep his voice firm and level, not to snap and snarl at the Wolf. "It'll be no good to you, it's not worth anything."

"Then why do you want it so bad?" Jeff breaks the eggs into the pan single handed, a neat flick of his wrist and broken shells are discarded on the floor. "Everything has worth."

"Not to you," Jensen bites out. "But without it I'm stranded here."

"Hmm," Jeff murmurs in possible agreement. "You want cheese with your eggs?"

"No, I..." Jensen flops back against the bed. The eggs are starting to smell really good, and he's suddenly aware that he only managed a few mouthfuls of last night's broth before everything became hazy and dim and he passed out.

He listens to the sounds of Jeff continuing to cook, the clatter of cutlery and warm sizzle of fat.

"Here," Jeff is kneeling up on the bed beside him, two plates heavy with a yellow mound of eggs and thick wedges of buttered bread. "It's won't seem so bleak once you've eaten."

"It wouldn't _be_ so bleak if you gave me my damn Hood back."

Jeff smiles and shakes his head, then starts tucking into his own breakfast.

The eggs do taste good, far better than the shapeless, watery mass the space-stop had served up. When's he's finished Jeff takes his plate away easily, leaning down to leave it on the floor. Then sits back up to regard Jensen with steady heavy-lidded eyes.

"Have you ever been beyond the Cendrillon Belt?"

He means to the planets and moons the Wolves inhabit, where they have built their dens and raise their young. Jensen shakes his head, no one goes out there, no one would dare go beyond the outer reaches where the Forrest System lies to where the Wolves call Home.

"It's beautiful and ugly, and people are starving, and trying, and surviving. And the Township has no say on how anyone lives their lives."

"I still need my ship."

"You're an aid worker."

"Yes."

"So," the Wolf moves in closer, face an inch from his own. Like this he can see the lines in the Wolf's face, each fleck of grey in his beard, and the rich, dark tones in his eyes. He can also see the generosity of his mouth, the quirk of it in the corner, the sharp line of a scar down his cheek. "Supply aid."

"You're a thief."

Jeff grins, "Absolutely."

"You're impossible."

"That too." The Wolf's eyes dip for a moment, and Jensen finds himself catching his breath as he realises Jeff is looking at his lips. "I take what is necessary. What is needed." The Wolf tilts his head to the side, leaning closer, "But I prefer if other things are given freely."

"I don't know what you mean," Jensen denies, but doesn't shift back.

"Yes, you do. You know exactly what I mean." A hand comes up to trace Jensen's jaw lightly, then skates down his throat to rest at his collarbone. "And I think you would very happily let me spread you out on this bed. And I think you would gasp and beg prettily while I did all those nasty things you think a Wolf like me knows how to do."

"And then what? I try to hitch a ride home and set about trying to scab money off every old friend that still talks to me until I can buy _another_ beat up old Hood and get flying again?"

"No." There's the brush of lips against his own, just light pressure, almost chaste. "No, then you come along with me and start doing some real good."

"Have you killed people?"

"Yes."

"And?" Jensen insists, holding himself still even as Jeff's hands slides across his shoulder and down his arm.

"And that's a story for a later time, Little Hood. Note that the word was _killed_ not _murdered_. Now," Jeff leans in close, breath warm against Jensen's ear, "Why don't you just let go, and we let things play out as they will?"

There's a beat, a long stretch of moment when Jensen can feel the scratch of Jeff's beard rough against his neck and one large hand cupping the jag of his hip, and then he's leaning his head back. "Yeah. Okay."

Jeff's smile is all teeth against his throat, in the far distance he swears he can hear howls, and then Jeff whispers, " _Wolf_."

**Author's Note:**

> Love and thanks to Marlowe6468 for the support and beta'ing. Each and every remaining error is my own fault.


End file.
